


Sort of Winning

by orphan_account



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-18
Updated: 2016-05-18
Packaged: 2018-06-09 07:17:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6895204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Thimblerig, who kindly prompted me. I did not write the prompt. I will be writing the prompt. Treville and Porthos mount a rescue, here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sort of Winning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Thimblerig](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thimblerig/gifts).



> WARNINGS: fighting, there are prisoners who aren't treated kindly, canon style violence, swording.

Porthos looked down at the sword in his hand, at the sharp steel, tempered by so many battles. His own, and his captains. He balances it, considering, then he shakes his head and re-sheaths it, looking up to meet Treville’s eyes. Treville nods, and holds his head up, shoulder straight. Porthos turns his back on Treville and kneels, bowing his head. 

“If you kill him, sir, you will be killing a Minister of the Crown, the Minister of War, a favourite of the king. You will be killing a great soldier, a captain who fought for the peace in this country with the blood in his veins, who protected the innocent and championed what was right and just. If you kill that man, you will be killing my father, my confident, my friend,” Porthos says. “You will pay a great price, for I cannot allow his murderer to live. I have sworn to protect the Crown and those the king orders me to protect, I have sworn to protect my brothers in arms, and I have sworn to protect my friends and family. I do not break my word.”

“I have told you how to save him.”

“I have fought for sport, before. I have fought to please my masters, to earn my bread, to save my life and others’. I have fought to the death. But I will not kill an unarmed, innocent man for your enjoyment. I will not dishonour myself or my regiment or my King. I will most especially not fight your prisoner, half-starved, half-dead, unwilling and with no malice for me and my, only fear.”

“Then your friend, your confident, your father, will die.”

“If he must, he will go willingly,” Porthos says. “He does not fear death, for we have walked in the valley of the dead many times.”

“This son of yours is willing to sacrifice you, what do you think of that?”

“I sacrifice myself,” Treville sounds, not sounding at all worried. “Do as you wish. I will die knowing that I shall be avenged, that your blood will stain the same earth as mine.”

The sea of men around them is starting to shift, uncomfortable and restless. Porthos reckons they have about thirty seconds before they’re dead, by accident or design. Treville nods, agreeing. Porthos shrugs. 

“Bring your prisoner, then,” Porthos says. “I am to fight him here, correct?”

“No, Porthos! They will kill me anyway!” Treville says. 

“Watching a musketeer slaughtering my prisoners will be… enjoyable. That is a stain that will not wash out.”

Porthos nods. He gets to his feet and re-draws his sword, not looking at Treville. 

**

Everyone dies. It is the only constant of living. Precarious, lovely, stripped. Life is many things. Mostly, though, it is simply an ending. A long ending or a short, happy or tragic. Pepé feels like he’s known he was dying since the moment he was born. The sword sharp in his back, the ragged wound on his shoulder, the bruises and burns and scarred skin under his shackles, though- these tell him that death is closer than he’d like. 

He keeps his head down as he’s paraded through the crowd. He’s been here six times already. No one makes it through a tenth, and he’s on seven. He’s seen so much blood in the last month, seen so many die. He lifts his head to face his death, and recognises him. So long ago, so so long ago. His lady, his daughter, his darlings. He grits his teeth, and refuses to die today. He will hold on, and he will see them again. He meets his murderer’s eyes, and demands. As hard as he can. 

The man advances, sword drawn, shoulders wide and face fierce. There’s blood in his beard, smeared across a scarred cheek. His knuckles are bruised. He grins, suddenly, and turns, big body moving in a graceful arc, sword moving like fire across three bellies, splitting them like grain sacks and spilling grain over the earth. Only they’re not grain sacks, and the grain is not grain. 

Pepé has seen this kind of death, too. He bows his head, tears coursing over his cheeks. It will not last, it never lasts. There’s a bellow, and Pepé looks up to watch the man’s death. It is not death, though. It is dancing. Feet quick, cloak flying, flash and crash of blade and thud of body. The sword moves in quick flashes, the man circling Pepé, around and around. 

And then, the music changes, and another body encroaches on the protective ring. Pepé bows his head again, but still death doesn’t come. The new body is let through, and Minister Treville kneels, a short blade in hand, and undoes the locks to Pepé’s shackles. 

“Can you fight?” the Minister asks, on his feet, knife darting back to where their protector’s circle has broken and someone has come through. 

“Yes,” Pepé says. 

“I’m Treville, this is Porthos,” the Minister says. Porthos tosses two blades to Treville, and Treville gives one to Pepé. “Back to back, sir.”

Pepé nods, and turns. He feels a shoulder pressing to each of his, and Porthos roars, then laughs, rowdy and delighted and terrifying. Then, Pepé fights. The other two seem to read each other easily, and pass plans back and forth without a word, dispatching the men around them quickly and without thought. 

“Now?” Porthos calls, breathless. 

“Yes!” Treville calls back. 

“Enough!” Porthos roars. 

The clearing stills, their sea of attackers hesitating. The woman who has been Pepé’s nightmares for so long, steps through. 

“Enough? No. Never.”

“For you, perhaps. Who is it who lies here, slaughtered by my blade? It is not your prisoner. Is this your day to die, too? You have seen me shot and still I stand, you have seen a blade pass through me, and still I stand, you have seen me beaten and still I stand! Is this your day to die, is this your death? Or will you stand down! I will make this forest run red with your blood!”

The crowd around them thins, and Treville bellows. He grips Pepé’s arm and they run, ploughing through the remaining men. They duck behind a tree, and then run in zigzags, left and right, turning and twisting about. 

“This way, come on, down we go,” Treville says, panting, as they slide down a slope. “Porthos is this way. Into the stream, they have dogs. Come on.”

They run for hours, or it feels that way. Pepé hears hoof beats, the barking of dogs, shots. He runs until he collapses, face first into mud. 

“Get up,” Treville says, dragging until Pepé manages it. 

They run further, and then Treville pushes, and Pepé falls through solid ground. Treville lands lightly beside him. 

“Shh,” Treville says. 

“They’re not here,” Porthos says. 

Pepé screams, startled, aching, too tired to control himself, and lashes out. Porthos laughs, catching his arm, and turns him onto his back, dragging him so he’s sat against a wall. 

“Where are we?” Pepé whispers. 

“Hole in the ground,” Porthos says. “I found it ten minutes ago. What took you so long?”

“How did you know to come here?” Pepé asks Treville. 

“Just the general direction,” Treville says, sitting beside Pepé. “Porthos?”

“Mm, yeah. Water, and a saddle bag that looked hopeful. Five pistols, all I could carry. One musket, three blades. Still got yours, no worries sir. Plenty of ammunition. Stashed a bit of powder, could do a bit of damage with ten minutes.”

“Do it.”

“You do it,” Porthos says. “What do you know about these kinds of wounds?”

“Shackles, though.”

“Go on.”

Pepé leans back and closes his eyes. Treville gets to his feet and leaves, Porthos crouches and starts to pull away Pepé’s clothes, examining the wounds and sores and damage of him. 

“I remember you,” Porthos says, softly. “I remember Mary.”

“And Anna,” Pepé says. “She survived. She’s grown all the way to adulthood.”

“That’s good to hear. Yes, I remember her, too. First time I helped a lady into the world.”

“Hardly that, sir,” Pepé says, sadly. “We’re no longer in the court, but how far can one get from that hell?”

“I am a musketeer, friend to ministers and kings,” Porthos says soft and sure and assuring. “She will get far. There goes the gunpowder, that’ll keep them busy a while. Forest fires are no good to anyone. Don’t worry, Treville’ll lead them around a long way, we’re safe for now.”

“There were others,” Pepé admits. 

“Yeah, we saw. Tonight. They won’t expect us back,” Porthos says. 

Pepé opens his eyes to see a fierce smile gracing Porthos’ features. 

“You fight like nothing I’ve seen before,” Pepé says. 

“I fight like I’m a cornered animal. I fight the way I was taught. You treat a man like he’s not human, and he learns it. He’ll bite. I’m no creature, though. Human as you are. Which is why I’m going to have to ask you to dig a ball out my side, and bind me arm.”

Porthos sits heavily beside Pepé, and Pepé sits carefully forward, his exhaustion and pains making themselves too well known. He does his best under Porthos’ instruction, but he’s pretty sure his bandages are sloppy. They sit for a long time, eyes closed, in silence. 

Treville does not return. 

“Pepé,” Porthos whispers, as time passes. “Pepé. Stay awake. I’m still bleedin’. You’re gonna have to, to stitch me.”

“I can’t sew,” Pepé says. 

“I got no needle, anyway. It’ll be more like makin’ holes and threading ‘em together,” Porthos says. 

“Tell me what to do,” Pepé says. 

Porthos removes his earring, unbending the circle of it, and Pepé forces it through the flesh of his arm, pushing a thread Porthos finds in a pocket after it. When he’s done, three jagged, ugly stitched tugging Porthos’ flesh together, Porthos tugs a flask out of the saddle bag and uncaps it, tipping it over the wound. He passes it to Pepé afterward. 

“Drink it. I cleaned yours good already.”

Treville drops in on them, all of a sudden. There’s a moment where Porthos nearly guts him, but the blade moves aside at the last second, saving them the mess. 

**

“You should have stayed with Pepé,” Treville says, as they move silently through the forest. 

Porthos shakes his head. He’s fine. A little dizzy and still bleeding, but fine. He can fight. If all goes to plan, they won’t need to, but he can if it comes to it. He sends Treville a quick grin and breaks away, making for the fire. He staggers, just inside the ring of light, and is spotted quickly enough. 

“Get him!”

He turns, running, falling, running. Sprinting. God, they should have reversed jobs. Porthos glances behind him, and pulls out his pistol, shooting a couple of trees. He can see Treville, far away. Thirty seconds. Porthos gives it him, ducking and weaving, legs tiring. He falls into the river, when he reaches it, and floats face down until people stop shooting at him. Then he turns onto his back and waits to be fished out. 

“That was a terrible plan,” Treville says, towing Porthos to shore. 

“Only ‘it me once,” Porthos rasps, staggering onto the bank.

“You’re hit?” Treville asks, hand going right to Porthos’ side. 

“Grazed me,” Porthos says. “Nice bit of blood from me arm. I’m gonna be sick for weeks, Minister. Why doctors think taking blood is a good idea, fuck knows.”

Treville laughs, pulling Porthos’ arm over his shoulders. They have a ways to walk, to fetch Pepé, and then back to their camp. 

**

“How did it go?” d’Artagnan asks, wandering into the room at the inn where Porthos is spread out on his back. “Treville says you won.”

“Sort of,” Porthos says. He’s drunk enough wine that he’s not hurting a bit. 

“You went to negotiate the release of the refugees the bandits caught, and you come back full of holes,” d’Artagnan says. “That’s hardly winning.”

“We got the refugees,” Porthos says. “That’s sort of winning.”

d’Artagnan flops onto the bed beside Porthos, jostling him. Porthos growls. 

“Did you and Treville do your thing?” d’Artagnan asks, tapping Porthos’ temple. 

“Get off. They gave me a solid thumb around the head, more’n once.”

“Did you do it?”

“No. Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Where’s Treville, right now?”

“Sitting by the fire with Athos, drinking wine? No?” Porthos asks. 

“True,” d’Artagnan says, thumb stroking over Porthos’ temple. “Aramis will be done with the prisoners, soon, and he’ll come check on you. How are you?”

“Sore, tired. Fine.”

Aramis slips into the room, then, rolling his eyes on finding Porthos still awake. Porthos is waiting, though, so there. Athos comes in next, dropping a bible in front of Aramis and bringing Porthos more wine. Warmed wine with spice and sweetness. Porthos waits. 

“Sir,” Porthos says, smiling. 

Treville enters a moment later, back in his courtly clothes, carrying a letter with the royal seal broken across the back. He sits on the edge of the bed, reading, legs stretched out. 

“Paris awaits, captain,” Treville says to Athos. “We return tomo- Porthos, why are you awake? Go to sleep, man.”

Porthos goes to sleep.


End file.
